


404

by chronicAngel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Humanstuck, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicAngel/pseuds/chronicAngel
Summary: “Sollux,” she murmurs, tone low and warning, when after a minute of not answering her you finally start to type your fourth message draft to your boss. That’s twice as many message drafts as you’re normally willing to type. She slides one hand down to gently rub your chest, and your fingers pause mid-word on the keyboard. “Come back to bed.”
Relationships: Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	404

You want to launch your laptop across a room. Whether that’s due to an error you’ve just made in your code (no, an error you’ve just  _ corrected _ in someone  _ else’s _ code, for the millionth god damn time, you really wish this guy would just give it a fucking break already) or the fruitless conversation you are having in another window is hard to say. Either way, there’s a migraine throbbing behind your temples and not for the first time you contemplate swallowing a whole bottle of Tylenol and just being done with this shit for good.

The same thing that pulls you out of that mindset every time pulls you out of that mindset this time: Aradia wraps her arms around you from behind, draping herself against your back and murmuring something in your ear that’s not quite audible. You guess your increasing volume and frequency of frustrated groans has woken her up. This is not the first time this has happened and you are sure it will not be the last.

“That same guy again?” She murmurs after a little while, when you guess she’s woken up more. You’re grateful that she’s not angry with you for sneaking out of bed to do more work. She never is, though it would certainly be justified. You grunt a confirmation and delete a third message draft because you think your tone is still much too aggressive. Best not to call the guy paying you to fix his work the sort of nincompoop who pulls the pin from a grenade and just holds it because he’s too stupid to observe what it does, loses his hands, and then has to write all of his code with his perpetually bleeding wrist stumps because there is clearly no other way he could have fucked up this badly-- no matter how much you may want to say that.

“You could always give up and come to bed for the night,” she murmurs, and this concept is laughable. You laugh at your girlfriend. Her mouth presses into a thin line but she is gracious enough otherwise not to comment on your poor manners. “I’m sure if you told your client what time it was here they would understand that you can’t work right now. The madder you get the harder it’s going to be to explain why the code is broken and the more times you’re going to have to fix it,” she says, which is mostly correct though not entirely so. She’s very logical. You hate how logical she is sometimes.

You glance at the clock for a moment rather than answering her immediately. It’s a little past two in the morning, your favorite time to work. Since moving in together, she has been a lot more on top of your awful schedule, which mostly means that she gets you to go to sleep with her for two or three hours before you wake up in an insomnia fit and sneak out of bed to get more work done as long as you’re going to be up anyway. In the morning she will always assure you that if you just stayed in bed, you would probably get back to sleep, and you will always argue back that you work best in the middle of the night, which is probably only true because you work  _ most _ in the middle of the night, and that’s how samples work.

“Sollux,” she murmurs, tone low and warning, when after a minute of not answering her you finally start to type your fourth message draft to your boss. That’s twice as many message drafts as you’re normally willing to type. She slides one hand down to gently rub your chest, and your fingers pause mid-word on the keyboard. “Come back to bed.”

You swallow. Fuck her for being stupid and sexy and persuasive. She’s not even using her sexy voice though, just her regular exhausted scolding voice, but it stirs up images of Aradia laying in bed alone staring at the ceiling and waiting for you and you can never forgive yourself when you find her like that, just knowing that it is fully your fault that she’s awake at that point. Usually that’s when you go to code in the living room. You think your furious typing may actually help her stay asleep almost as much as cuddling her does.

“Fine,” you huff, snapping your laptop closed without another word to your employer. You will likely get reprimanded for this later, but you are not paid by the hour, so it doesn’t actually matter that much. Plus, you fixed his issue already. It’s not your fault if he breaks it again-- or rather, it won’t be your fault when he inevitably definitely does break it again.

Your desk is simply tucked into the opposite corner of your now-shared bedroom from your bed, so you only have to cross about six feet of wire-laden, empty-Mountain-Dew-bottle-filled, laundry-carpeted floor before you flop down ungraciously onto your bed. It’s a queen-sized bed that you’ve had for years now, long enough that the very middle of it where you used to sleep before you were sharing it with another person is a little bit sunk in, and Aradia keeps nagging you to get a new one, perhaps a king-sized one so you’ll stop complaining about all of the space she takes up when the two of you sleep, but you’ve told her very sternly about a million times now that  _ if _ you got a new bed, it would still be a queen-sized bed, because queens are infinitely better than kings and that’s basically all there is to say on the matter. She always rolls her eyes and says you need to take this apiculture thing less seriously, or perhaps more seriously and make that your career if that would mean you started keeping half-decent hours. ( _ Keeping _ half-decent hours? Like beekeeping? Yeah, it was funnier in your head. Fortunately it never left your head!)

She pokes you in the ribs until you scoot over enough that she can also clamber into bed, and then you burrow yourself in her side. Your girlfriend is almost a foot shorter than you, but if you could bury your whole body in her you definitely would. As it stands, your face finds a spot in one of her shoulders and you cross one of your long legs over both of her short ones (well, really rather average ones, you know you’re the string bean here).

Her hand comes up to start gently brushing her fingers through your hair, pushing your bangs away from your face. Her skin feels flushed against yours, but it always does. You don’t know where this girl generates body heat from but you’re pretty sure she’s in the running for “hottest things Sollux Captor has ever interacted with”, in leagues with that shitty 2010 laptop you held onto for way longer than you should have and your father’s shitty smoke used for rounding up his bees. (You have fond memories of the bees. You have much less fond memories of your brother nearly lighting himself on fire every other week in the attempt to beekeep and impress your dad, who you suspect didn’t even actually like bees all that much but rather defaulted to a mild interest when none of his larger ones panned out. You admire that about him.) You push your hand up her shirt, just enough to rest against her stomach and sap the warmth from it to return some life to your fingers as long as they aren’t typing. She sucks in a sharp breath at how cold you are, but otherwise says nothing.

It doesn’t actually take you long to doze off when you’re all snuggled up like this. Aradia is a good pillow, and her fingers massaging against your scalp make the last traces of your migraine evaporate, and when you’re warming up on her like a lizard on a rock in the desert you don’t even need to get under the blankets. Her legs are tangled up in the comforter which means that it’s around your leg, but otherwise your body is basically blanket-free. As you’re in the final stages of passing out, you murmur against her skin, “Love you, AA.”

It’s a dumb nickname. She should laugh at you. She doesn’t, but you think you can feel her smile into your hair. “I love you too, dummy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently all I write now is domestic Homestuck fic.
> 
> The title is actually because of 404 by One South Lark and has very little to do with this fic. It was in one of my Daily Mixes so I figured I'd use that for the title.


End file.
